THE SEAMSTRESS' STORY
by PiperFreeze6
Summary: A short account of the young seamstress and her last moments from A Tale of Two Cities. I have done my best to be faithful to the original text, but have made 2 slight differences: I gave the seamstress a name and raised her age by a year and a half.


**THE SEAMSTRESS' STORY**

I never thought that the cause for liberty in my beloved France would come to this. My name was Jeanne Chenevier, and I had raven-colored hair and wide green eyes. I was a mere country girl of but twenty-one who had left the countryside three years before to find work in the city. Up until this time I had lived with my cousin. Her name was Elisabeth and she was five years younger than I. Poverty had forced us to part and Elisabeth (at my insistence) had gone to care for and live with an elderly woman in a small cottage.

I was sorrowful that I could not go live with them (the cottage was big enough only for two, not three) but I dried my tears and moved to the city of Paris, where I obtained a small flat and worked as a seamstress. Although I grew accustomed to my new life in the city, I yearned for the beauty and often-called "barrenness" of my home in the country. Sometimes I dreamed of raising my children in the country, if I was ever fortunate enough to marry.

I became quite successful working in the milliner's shop, but some of the other female employees became jealous of my work and talent. It didn't seem to be long before I was arrested and imprisoned in La Force. The charges were incredulous- concealing secret papers of government information within the sewed products. Lies, lies! I did not even have the blessed ability to read or write- such a gift had been granted in the past only to those of noble birth, and now it was bestowed upon those whom the Revolution had given power.

How long I was imprisoned in La Force, I shall never know for certain. So many were imprisoned in that dreadful place, and many more were arriving each and every day. Some, like me, were of lowly station in life- a forty-year-old baker, the tailor's young widow of twenty-six- they were all accused of treachery to the Republic on charges even more ridiculous than my own. Accusations of serving moldy bread to the officials of the Republic or giving birth to the illegitimate child of a much-disliked courtier sealed what was to be their fate in the eyes of the government.

Others who were imprisoned were of higher rank- treasurers, valets, and even some former aristocrats. There was one that I especially liked due to his considerate and unselfish behavior to those around him. He was known simply as "Citizen Evremonde". During our frequent conversations, I came to learn that he (though being of French birth) had journeyed from his home in England to try to save the life of a faithful former servant, who had been unjustly imprisoned in Abbaye.

Citizen Evremonde was happily married, with a beautiful wife (whose physical description to me sounded nothing less than angelic) and a pretty little daughter of nine.

I asked him to tell me all about England, for I, having never set foot out of my homeland, was curious. According to those with whom I had associated, I had always been an inquisitive creature. Citizen Evremonde told me of many things- how beautiful a body of water (he called it "the Channel") was, how much he adored sitting out in the garden with his wife and listening to the birds sing. He assured me though, that England was not without its problems, as any place in the world was. I told him of my life in the country and how much I had longed for the ability to read and write. He promised he would instruct me, but that was the last time I saw him. He was moved to another part of La Force prison. A while later, I heard that Citizen Evremonde had been tried for treason and was released by the courts.

Unfortunately, I was declared guilty without the right to a trial. One morning, I was informed by a passing guard that I was to be executed (he used the word 'shaved') that afternoon. He looked miserably at me as he said this, for (in that rough but sincere manner of his) he had come to look upon me as a surrogate daughter.

But there was nothing either one of use could do to change this outcome. I had seen many condemned fellow prisoners react in one of two ways; they either accepted their condemnation with great composure and dignity, or they fell into dreadful fits, bemoaning their lot in life.

Now having heard that I was to follow those who had gone before me to La Guillotine, I reacted contradictorily. Part of me wanted to scream in protest, for I was not yet twenty-two and still had many years left to live. The same part of me wanted to provide evidence of my innocence, but it would have done me no good. The other part of my soul (God forgive me for not wanting to remain alive!) felt a fleeting sense of joy, for I had no desire to live another day in a world ruled by terror and depravity. I had no wish to raise any children I might once have had amongst wickedness and hatred; I would rather journey into that heavenly kingdom to be with God, Our Lady, and the Saints forever. It was this latter path that I chose to take, and (despite my uncertainty) I would not deter from it.

That following afternoon, the guards forced us from our cells into the prison's courtyard. I couldn't tell just how many of us there were- perhaps fifty or sixty- but there were men and women of all ages, right down to the seventeen-year-old carpenter's apprentice (the youngest of us). Some of them were sobbing hysterically, others embraced loved ones closely, and the rest were as still and silent as the grave.

I looked amongst the crowd to see if there was anyone I might know- I did not want to spend the last minutes of my life in solitude, with no one to talk to. At the far end of the courtyard, I spied a familiar figure leaning against the pillar and my spirits rose. Could it be Citizen Evremonde? Surely it couldn't be, for he had been released from prison.

Trying to smother these rising thoughts, I walked over to where he was standing, causing him to look up at the approach of my footsteps. He looked somewhat different than when I had last seen him, but that was to be expected during these times.

I was never brilliant when it came to starting conversations, but now the words flowed from my lips as though someone else had spoken them. "Citizen Evremonde?" I said, hesitantly touching his hand with my own. "I doubt you would remember me, but I was a poor little seamstress who was with you in La Force."

I thought I saw a bit of confusion in his eyes before he registered his expression and replied, "Yes, of course. I forget, though, what you were accused of."

I shrugged resignedly and felt myself smile bemusedly. "Oh, I was accused of plots. Heaven knows, however, that I am innocent of any. Who would think of plotting with someone like me?"

I could have sworn that I saw tears come down from his eyes, but when I looked again, they were gone. Attempting to stem the flow of sorrow and regret that I now felt for us all, my thoughts began to pour from my mouth before I could stop them. "It's not that I'm afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, (even though I am) but I have done nothing. I am not very unwilling to die, if this Republic which is to do so much good for us poor, will profit by my death; but I fail to understand how that can be."

Ahead of us were the tumbrils- those horrid carts that had carried so many to their deaths and would carry us to our ends. The other prisoners were already being shepherded into these carts, like livestock being led to market. Seeing that there wasn't much time left and that I might not get another opportunity to ask him, I blurted out, "Citizen Evremonde, may I ride with you, please? May I hold your hand? I am just a little afraid, and it will give me more courage."

A slight smile formed on the corners of his mouth and he assented to my request, just as one of the guards came to propel us, the last of the stragglers, into the tumbrils. It was when the tumbrils started to move forward that I realized that the man I was with could not be Citizen Evremonde, for his eyes were dark brown (Citizen Evremonde's eyes had been grey). My doubt must have shown in my face for, when he caught me looking at him, he pressed my poor thin fingers firmly and made a gesture to me to keep silent.

However, I couldn't keep still and whispered, "You are dying for him?"

"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes."

I suddenly felt a bit braver myself, as well as amazed that a complete stranger would sacrifice his own life for that of a man so hated by the Republic. "Oh, you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?"

For answer, he took my hand in his and held it firmly, as if he never intended to let go. I heard the neighing of the horses, felt the sudden jolt that almost threw me from where I perched on the side, and knew that the tumbrils had begun to rumble.

The stranger talked to me while the tumbrils carried us to our destination. I believe that his purpose in doing this was to fortify whatever courage I might have had left; amidst the jeers and insults from the roaring crowds, he conversed with me alone. He only asked a few questions-where I was born, how old I was, and so on. I gave him a summation of my short life, but did not receive his story, due to his reluctance to disclose it.

There was a crash and I turned around in fright to see a head fall into the basket beneath the terrible instrument of death. The stranger, with the quickest movements I have ever seen in a person, drew me back to face him. He told me to keep my eyes upon him only, and no other object. What seems like only a few more times La Guillotine gnashed its sharp blade and then, one of the guards forced me to descend from the tumbril. I knew then that the time had come, but begged for a few minutes to say my farewells to the stranger. The guard that had pulled me from the cart began to curse and would have dragged me to the scaffold had not another man (he was not a guard but appeared to hold some authority over these men) stopped him and forced him to grant my request.

I turned back to the strange man I had come to know and admire in the last half of an hour and said to him, "If this Republic really does good to the poor and they come to be less hungry and less miserable, my cousin might even live to be old, yes?"

He answered, "Most apparently so. What is your question then, mademoiselle?"

I bit my lip and strove to keep the tears from flowing down my cheeks as I said, "Do you think it will seem an eternity for me to wait for her in the better world where I believe you and I will reside?"

I saw his mouth form a soft smile. "It surely will not be, for there is no time or trouble in the world you are describing."

Feeling greatly restored to my old confidence, I kissed him on the lips and he reciprocated in kind. I whispered my farewell to him and turned back to face the guard and death.

As I climbed up the steps to La Guillotine, I distantly heard the guard call out my prisoner number: Twenty-two. The age I would have but never would reach now. There was a feeling as though all other sounds of this troubled world had died out, even the shouts of the mob. I now find that I have no recollection of being bound and lowered beneath the blade, not even of the blade descending down upon me…

What followed after that, I cannot clearly describe. But it lasted only an instant, a mere moment of darkness and then light. And I was reunited with my last true friend in the better world of which we had talked, and from which we would never depart.

THE END


End file.
